


3 am

by cucumber_of_doom



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 12:28:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5539982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cucumber_of_doom/pseuds/cucumber_of_doom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pregnant Alana craves fresh muffins in the middle of the night. Baking fluff ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	3 am

Margot is unsure what it is that wakes her, but when she looks to her left, that side of the bed is empty. It makes her grow cold with fear for a moment, like it always does. Mason may be dead and buried, but the horror of having whatever measure of happiness she built for herself ripped away stays. Margot knows this feeling will be her companion for many years to come.

She takes a deep breath and slips out of bed.

The estate's big rooms are always a bit chilly at night so Margot puts on a pair of slippers and her green silk robe, before walking out into the dark hallway. She still feels goosebumps rise on her arms. 

Margot doesn't bother to turn on the lights, knowing the way down the wide stairs by heart, but makes sure her steps are audible before she walks into the kitchen. Alana, she knows, cares for surprises as little as Margot does herself nowadays.

The lighting in the room is dim - only the spotlights above the counter turned on - which leave a low, orange glow. Alana stands with her back to the door, wrapped in a thick, soft, maroon fleece robe, measuring baking powder into a stainless steel bowl. She looks tiny in the big empty space that was designed with staff in mind, not her wife. Margot likes it better this way. Muskrat Farm used to be a comfortable prison, filled with strangers obeying her brother's wishes; now they make different memories in this place.

When Alana sets down the empty package and turns Margot sees flour dusted down the front of the robe. Alana's dark hair is tied in a messy ponytail and her blue eyes look tired.

To Margot she has never been more beautiful.

Being allowed to see the woman beneath that steely exterior is a rare thing, even for her. Those moments are precious to Margot, but she she noticed them happening more frequently. Like now. A stolen moment between late night and early morning, both of them with their usually near impermeable walls down. It is a work in progress.

“Shouldn't you be asleep?” Margot asks, eyebrows raised and trying hide the relief in her voice.

“Our son kept me up,” Alana replies, her left hand resting on the noticeable swell of her belly. “And now he is hungry. Maybe if I feed him he will calm down and let me sleep.”

Margot hums, then walks up behind Alana and rest her chin heavily on her wifes shoulder, peering into the two bowls on the counter. Flour and baking powder in the smaller, yellow mush in the bigger one.

“It smells like banana in here. What are you making? Pancakes?” she asks.

“Muffins, actually: banana and chocolate chip,” Alana corrects and Margot buries her face in the mess of dark hair, still sleepy but content with having found her wife unharmed. There is nothing more important than the knowledge that the nightmares are solely in her head these days.

“There is no time for baking muffins like 3am,” she murmurs before pressing her lips to Alana's cheek and steps back to let the other woman work.

“At least my cravings are somewhat sensible. I have yet to find myself snacking on pickles dipped in Nutella,” Alana muses while adding sugar, butter and eggs to the mashed banana, fits the big bowl into it's slot in the kitchen machine and pulls the lever forward. The machine comes to life with a mechanical whir, stirring the sweet smelling mess slowly into fluffiness. There is something hypnotic in the steady movement of the whisk, calming Margot down further. They are as safe as they will ever be behind the walls of their home.

When Alana reaches for the open package of flour Margot gets to it first, closing it with a scattered clip and puts it into the upper left cupboard where it belongs. It earns her a scolding look from Alana. 

“You really shouldn't. You have a meeting in the morning, don't you?” Alana says but Margot sees her lips twitch, the scolding nothing but routine.

“And you have a hospital to run, darling. I think we are even,” Margot reminds her, then cleans up the empty paper satchel of baking powder and the chocolate wrapping.

“Still.”

“Sit down. Let me pamper you a bit to counter all the things I cannot take for you.”

“Like my fingers swelling,” Alana says with a sigh.

“Like your fingers swelling,” Margot agrees and takes Alana's left hand between both of her own, pressing a feather light kiss to her palm. “They are still as lovely as ever.”

“Flatterer. I can't even wear my wedding band anymore,” Alana grumbles. After pulling back and sitting down on the closest chair she adds: “I really like that ring. It would be a shame if I couldn't wear it any more.”

Margot looks over her shoulder, giving her wife a playful smile.

“You will wear it again when the time comes. I actually insist you do.”

Alana shakes her head but doesn't protest against Margot cleaning up the clutter while the machine stirs. Once the batter looks promising enough she turns it off, cleans off the rest clinging to the whisk and sets the bowl down in font of Alana, placing the muffin pan and a pack of paper liners next to it.

“Do your worst,” she teases and goes to cleaning the kitchen machine. When she returns to the table Alana is evenly distributing the last of the batter into the little moulds, giving the spoon a longing look.

„The worst thing right now is not being able to lick the spoon,“ Alana states and Margot suppresses a laugh. In moments like this, there is nothing in the world Margot wants more than to kiss her. So she does – quickly – and collects the spoon from her wife's hand while she is distracted.

„But later you get all the muffins you want,“ she offers, still smiling. 

It earns her a half hearted pout but there is no resistance when she carries the empty bowl to the sink and places the pan in the oven. She sets the timer, returns to the table and pulls up a chair next to Alana. It is comfortable, the light and smell from the oven adding to the surreal atmosphere. The outside world has ceased to exist in a cocoon of sugary warmth, if only for a short while.

They watch the muffins slowly rise, chocolate chips melting into shapelessness, Alanas hand on her belly.

“I am glad he is healthy but I feel guilty about how happy it makes me that our child is a boy,” Alana says after a while of content silence, smoothing down an imaginary crease in her nightgown. They have talked about this before, briefly. Before Alana shot down the idea of using a surrogate, despite how difficult both pregnancy and childbirth would possibly be for her with her medical history. Previously shattered hips don't make an easy birth.

It is still not the biggest risk either of them has taken in their lives and they will manage. They always have, this will be no different. Or it will be, because now they have each other to rely on. At least for Margot this is novel.

She reached out and smoothed back a lock of Alana's hair, then let her hand rest on top of Alana's on the table.

“You do know I would still love you if it was a girl. I would love our daughter all the same. It is simply...” Margot stops. There is no nice way to voice her thoughts. Alana beats her to it, glorious woman she is.

“But this way it is easier. I know,” Alana says, always pragmatic. “I have thought about this a lot. We are both professionals, we could make do without the Verger fortune. But having it eliminates so many obstacles. And we both deserve it after everything that happened. Is that selfish?”

Margot smiles, a little tired. They may not be good people by societies standards but they are the best they are willing to be and that has to count for something. They know about those that never bother to try. She and Alana; they are better than that, at least.

“Probably.” 

Margot traces her wife's thumb until the oven-timer dings and she stands up, puts on the quilted gloves and gets the muffin tray out onto the stove to cool. They smell divine, all sugary and fresh.

From the table, there is a tired groan.

“And here I thought the Verger heir was finally asleep,” Alana complains, hand back on her belly. Margot crouches down in front of her, placing her own hand next to hers. There is another movement, another slight wince and Margot leans closer.

„Our strong little boy. Once you get your muffins you need to let your mama sleep, you hear me, young man?“ she talks to her unborn son, tired but proud and happier than she can remember. “Sweet little Morgan, go to sleep.”

They stay like that for a little longer, fingers touching, their son settling back down. Margot rises slowly, pecks Alana on the cheek and checks on the muffins. They are still hot, but cool enough not to burn oneself. Knowing not to push her luck with patience, she pries one muffin free and offers it to Alana.

“Since you did most of the work, you should try first.”

Alana's stomach gives an undignified rumble at the offered treat. She shakes her head, amused at the whole ridiculousness, then takes a bite out of the muffin and groans.

“Sweet Jesus, this is good.”

“Good enough to let you sleep?”

“Once this one is finished. And maybe a second,” Alana says between bites, eyes closed in bliss.

“Take your time.”

Margot rests her hip against the counter, content with watching. Cliché or not: baking with her wife in the middle of the night, bribing their unborn son to sleep, she couldn't be happier.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to see me rambling about writing and a lot of random blogging, visit my [tumblr](http://cucumber-of-doom.tumblr.com/) because that's where the cool kids are.


End file.
